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He almost walks past without noticing. Last period’s chemistry test still on his mind, Billy can’t stop himself from going over the final problem over and over again. He blinks, and the formulas dance across his lids. Irrational, he knows. He’s as familiar with the processes as he is with Busiek’s Iron Man run. Okay, they’re not that engrained. There’s still no reason to be freaking out.
Kessler’s mocking tone, the sneer in his voice, shatter Billy’s concentration. Shit. He ducks away, putting as many people as possible between himself and the bully’s supposed location. Breathing picking up, his eyes dart around, searching for an escape and Kessler. Which does he need to find first? What direction should he go in? Think. Panic is the enemy.
He locates Kessler first. But more importantly, his eyes land on the smaller boy in the bully’s grasp. He tries to get a closer look at the kid without drawing attention to himself. Nope, Billy doesn’t know him. Contrary to popular—ahem, Kessler’s—belief, not all geeks and nerds hang out together. Not that he’ll ever correct the homophobic lunk.
It’s probably nothing, he tells himself, just a quick shake, a reminder of who’s boss. Another part of Billy snorts skeptically. You’re the one he really wants, 24601, not that you’ll have the courage to do anything about it. More and more, Kessler’s been fixated on Billy, always with that horrible, cheap pen.
As if on cue, Kessler yanks one out of his pocket. Even practically invisible, across a crowded hallway, Billy flinches and hates himself for it. “You’re safe. You’re safe,” he repeats under his breath. You’re pathetic, hisses the vicious inner voice. Hidden in the sea of students, he can walk by unharmed. Part of the flock of sheep. Run, run from the wolf. Hope he doesn’t see you or it’ll be worse.
No one spares a glance at the bully’s victim except for him. Why would they? They never do when he’s on the other end of those meaty fists. At least they’re consistent. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, tells himself to look away. There’s nothing else you can do unless you think Mom will swallow the dodge ball bullshit a second time. Even better, Kessler might think it’s a two-for-one deal and hurt them both.
He doesn’t want to be like them though. He wants to act. Ignoring the misery and violence right in front of him makes his stomach churn. But you’re just like them, the voice in his head accuses, pretending it’s none of your business the way they do. The hand at his side curls into a fist. What else can he do? He wants to scream. What if he did? What if he stopped in the middle of the hallway and yelled at them all? Look, see, do something!
Nothing would change. They might stare at him, some startled, some wary, some angry. But he can’t make them care.
Someone clips his shoulder and hisses a venomous “watch it.” He didn’t realize he’d stopped walking. His classmates jostle him as they pass, mumbled insults in their wake. Each time it makes him more furious. Someone else’s pain doesn’t concern them, but him standing in their way bothers them enough to open their mouths? He wants to snarl, to make them recoil. To make them react. For once.
You can’t change any of this, he reminds himself. Don’t do anything stupid.
He might do it anyway.
Can you not be an idiot for two seconds? Clearly not. Billy’s nothing but a seething ball of righteous rage and resignation with a shattered sense of self-preservation. Reason seeps through the cracks between his fingers. Even when he tries to wrap his fingers around it, to hold it tight, it slips away.
He reminds himself of the pain, the bruising, the absolute terror. Fear that he won’t be as lucky this time, and his other half will pay the price. Kessler’s ugly words will be branded into their skin from his own. His soulmate know how powerless he is. Worse, that helplessness will become theirs. People they know, his soulmate’s inner demons, everyone will feed on the weakness. The pen, the bullying, somehow he’s managed to disguise it. He’s blamed all the hateful notes on his arms on his brothers or an imaginary asshole friend. His other half buys the excuse. It’s almost worse than explaining the truth. He both yearns for and dreads the day they see right through him.
Here in this hallway, on the streets, everyday, people brush by him. No one stops. No one looks. Why should he? Interfering will only hurt him. Then there’s the other voice. Not part of the solution, he’s part of the problem. Just like them. He hates the thoughts. He hates him. Choose. Remember, even not making one is a choice.
Billy rubs his left arm, fabric bunching up beneath his palm. Eighty degrees out, he thinks, eighty degrees out, and he still has to wear long sleeves. To hide the best part of his life, those precious, bright soulmarks. Covering them up makes it seem like he ashamed of them. Never. He aches to walk down the hall, unashamed. But the cost, he knows he can’t pay.
So don’t provoke the bully; stay small. He repeats these reminders like mantras. Like saying them over and over again will make him feel less guilty. Seven times seven times seven repetitions, yet they don’t sink in. They’ll never be a part of him.
Today these thoughts are more important. Nothing can ruin the veritable sleeve of inked drawings marching up his forearm. Captain America’s shield starts just above his wrist. Stacked above it are Widow’s hourglass, Hawkeye’s bow, Mjolnir, a Hulk’s green fist, and Iron Man’s Arc Reactor. Billy loves it to death, but doesn’t know how to tell his soulmate how much. Anything he could say wouldn’t do the art justice. He should be used to never having the right words when it comes to his other half.
His heart pounds in his ears. Nervous about saying the wrong thing to his other half, but that’s not all. He rubs the row of exclamation marks he just drew on the inside of his wrist. Excitement, easier to express than words. The skin itches. “All in your head,” he repeats, under his breath, “it’s all in your head.” The pressure of the thin nub, the catch when the pen drags over skin, he doesn’t have to fixate on it. He doesn’t have to dread it.
He doesn’t have to let vicious, hateful John Kessler win.
But of course he does. If Kessler gets his hands on Billy and ruins the art, nothing he can say will fix it. It’s an incontrovertible fact. He knows it as well as he knows the founding members of the Avengers. He should be used to being a coward, to never having the courage to speak his mind. Maybe it’s better if his soulmate learns how much of a mistake they’re making if they accept a life tied to him. Maybe he should just stop thinking and continue walking. Let the fear own him.
Choose.
A loud, metallic bang echoes through the hallway. Billy jumps and whips his head toward the sound. Kessler has the other boy lifted against the row of lockers. Sneering something Billy can't quite hear, the bully brandishes the pen like a blade. It might as well be. He can't face that nightmare again. But if he doesn't, no one else will. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to tame the storm of anxiety and anger inside himself.
Don't be a hero. Don’t be a coward. He has to decide.
He knows the exact moment when Kessler unsheathes the pen with a press of his meaty thumb. The ominous click somehow reaches his ears over the low roar of his classmates' voices. He can't just keep walking. He can't be like them. Billy Kaplan gives into the terrible, horrible idea.
"Just leave him alone, John."
Kessler turns around to look at him. Some of the students stop, their selective attention spans attracted to the unfolding drama. A flash of shock crosses the bully’s expression before he recognizes who's challenging him. Every part of Billy wants to run and hide when he hears the dark chuckle. "Protecting your boyfriend, Kaplan? How's your dorky soulmate going to feel about you dating other fags?"
"Jealous?" The words pour out of him, mocking. His heart's still racing, but the adrenaline must be kicking in. He feels invincible. "If you wanted a shot with me, why didn't you just come out and say it?"
And maybe accusing the school bully of having a big, gay crush on him wasn't the best idea. He barely has a chance to regret letting his mouth and misplaced hero complex get away from him. Kessler drops the other kid, charges toward him, every bit the rampaging bull. He probably shouldn't have worn a red hoodie today. Toro, toro. The bully's intended victim scampers off without a glance back. It figures he'd be just like the rest of them.
Well at least he can be proud of himself as he gets flattened. He's not surprised when he gets picked up, and his back is driven into the lockers. The blood pounds in his ears, drowning out any other sound. Kessler yanks off Billy's hoodie by the sleeve. It doesn't rip, a miracle and probably the only one he's going to get. So why hold back now? He can't make it worse for himself.
"What are you waiting for?" He doesn't look away from the bigger boy's gaze. All his words don't mean a thing if he just cowers and waits for this to be over. He might be trapped, but he's done being afraid. Much. Like the heartbeat in his ears, newfound power pounds through him. Momentary elation, electricity, hums under his skin.
Kessler grits his teeth, his entire first wrapped around the pen's shaft. Its tip hovers over the art Billy's soulmate so masterfully created. Billy fights down the bile, panic crawling up his throat. He knows what's coming, doesn't let himself shy away. The Scarlet Witch was right. He can't live by flinching and hoping he doesn't get hit. He won't walk past and pretend he can't see someone else's pain.
Gritting his teeth, he steels himself against the upcoming beating and the ugly words that Kessler will write. He tries not to gulp air like a drowning man. Don't give him what he wants. Don't let him see your fear.
The bully's hand trembles with rare as he lowers the pen toward Billy's arm. Kessler's breath is forced through his nostrils in loud puffs. Then he stops. "You've gotten off too easy," Kessler snarls and throws the pen to the ground. The crunch of the plastic beneath his shoe is deafening. Then his huge hand closes around Billy's throat and squeezes.
Blind panic overwhelms him. He gasps for air, clawing at Kessler's grip. Darkness churns at the edge of his vision as he struggles. Something builds and builds under his skin. He lashes out.
The anger and panic erupt from him. He can breathe again. Kessler flies across the hallway, a bolt of blue lightning arcing between Billy and him. The bully collapses in a heap on the floor, unmoving.
What just happened? Shit. What did he do?
His gaze darts around the watching students. They're paying attention now, but no one will meet his eyes. The hush before the whispers start is crushing. They all stare at the prone boy. Some of their gazes flick back to him before skittering away. They're afraid. Of him.
He swallows hard. Before he consciously decides, he takes off. He grabs his hoodie from the floor and tosses it around his shoulders like a cape, to shield himself from their unfriendly eyes. Out the doors of the school, across the parking lot, then a beeline for Central Park. If he can just make it to the trees, everything will make sense again. He collapses on a bench just inside the park and stares down at his hands. With the leaves blocking out the buildings and no one around, he can almost breathe again.
Cap's shield hovers at the edge of his vision. He's still shaking, breath forces in and out of his lungs in burning gasps. He may have killed John Kessler. Or at least, seriously injured him. Using lightning? He doesn't know, but he can feel the energy sparking through him. Why is this happening? He doesn't want to go to jail, doesn't want to lose the few friends he has. Why couldn't he just have kept his head down? Why can't he be the type of person that just keeps walking?
"William Kaplan?"
He glances up at the sound of his name. Did he really think he could run from this? He opens his mouth to apologize, to defend himself, and freezes. The voice belongs to a person—or they could be an android—whose suit of armor reminds him of Iron Man. But the face is expressive, anxious even, and the voice sounds young. This doesn't happen to people like him outside of comics and fantasy novels. "Who are you supposed to be?" More importantly, what do you want?
If this isn't about Kessler, why is someone looking for him? Billy knows he's not especially good at anything. Well, not anything useful until a few minutes ago. No way he's letting some shady person or organization, government or otherwise, blackmail or kidnap him because of powers he didn't ask for. So he waits for an answer, heartbeat timing the silence that stretches between them. If he had to, could he use the power to defend himself again?
"Iron Lad," the boy says resignedly. "I'm looking for William Kaplan. I need his help."